


tom collins never had one in this bar

by Teanna



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-01
Updated: 2002-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:55:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28120494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teanna/pseuds/Teanna
Summary: A slow night
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	tom collins never had one in this bar

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: Liz, for the setup, CGB, for quick beta, and I'll take them and Lilla,  
> Shaye, and Leea with me to that warmer place

It's a slow night, a night of random cruising across the galaxy, a night of late   
night dancing over the asteroid belts of the Universe. A night for heading home,   
but without hurry, because the night is warm and the crowd is friendly and the   
bartender will serve you another drink, if you pretend to be less drunk than you   
both know that you are.

Janeway orders another Tom Collins from the bartender, and if Kim's idea of a   
holographic bartender is a sour-faced Vulcan, well, he will learn. 

The cherry tastes red, red, and not like a cherry at all, of course. But still. Red.

Someone - Seven of Nine - sits down next to her, and there is this space between   
their arms, this gap of no more than nine Standard Federation Centimetres,   
which is what Captain Janeway should think of the space between two arms.   
Kathryn, she would say it was far away as not to be too close, and yet so close   
the heat of her body is like a breath on your skin. Too close, and not close   
enough.

Time goes by.

"Are you drinking?"

Seven tilts her head to one side, like a bird (if birds were catlike and golden,   
then like a bird she tilts her head) and looks at Janeway.

"No, Captain, as you can see I am not drinking."

Sometimes, between the rock and the hard place, Scylla and Charybdis, between   
the Vulcan and the Borg, humans - real, stupid, oversexed, crazy, touchy-feely   
forever adolescent humans - are such a blessing. But tonight, and the gap   
between your arm and her arm is only eight point five Standard Federation   
Centimetres, and so, we must make do.

(Only, it's not at all a question of making do. This is not making do.)

"This," she gestures at the drink, "is a Tom Collins."

Seven frowns.

"Did Tom Paris-"

"No. No, this is a very old recipe. Gin."

"Ah."

Seven makes a small gesture with her hand. It's easy to put your own right hand   
over her left, give it a comforting squeeze, and then, not quite let go of it.

"Don't worry - you've been out of touch."

But Seven's hand is not as warm as her arm (now, with the various movements   
having taken place, the gap between the arms are a paltry three point seven   
Standard Federation Centimetres).

She lets go of Seven's hand and gestures at the bartender.

"One more, and one for my friend."

Had it been a Tom Paris bartender, he would have grinned and said something   
dirty, in bad French, but the Vulcan only nods and picks up two glasses.

The stars, outside, blink.

They both have their hair bound and coiled and Regulation, and Janeway has a   
brief fantasy about letting her hair down and then Seven's (only then she'd run   
her fingers through Seven's hair and she ends the fantasy when Fantasy-Seven   
takes off her clothes, too). 

They get their drinks. Seven takes hers all at once, leaving only the cherry and   
the slice of orange on the bottom of her glass.

"No, no. You're doing it all wrong," says Janeway, trying to suppress a giggle.   
Starship Captains do not giggle (they also don't dream of the Borg undressing).

"See, here's what you do. Sip. Sip carefully."

"Ah."

Seven takes Janeways' glass and tries to sip. It's more of a gulp. She then tries to   
hand the glass back to Janeway.

"Uh, no, I'll get another."

...The hour grows late and her tongue is almost numb.

"And the sugar must be very, very fine - no use in taking the crude stuff, y'know,   
it has to be almost powdery..."

"Again," says Seven.

"Again?"

"I fell asleep."

"Oh." And Janeway actually giggles. It's a disgrace. They order another round.

"Two fingers gin, two fingers soda water."

"pling," says Seven, to that. It's not a word, it's an actual pling, too.

"pling?"

"plong." 

There is no space between their arms now, because Seven's head has dropped   
onto her shoulder. 

"pling plong."

"Well, pling plong to you too," says Janeway, and then: "one ounce of lemon   
juice and a spoon of sugar, the fine stuff, you'll recall."

"plingpling pling."

"Then you shake them, with ice, and then more ice."

"plo-o-ong."

"Top with soda."

Seven is silent. Her head is heavy on Janeways' shoulder, and a strand of golden   
hair has tumbled down her neck and they are too close and too far away at the   
same time, and it hurts, some. It hurts.

"And don't forget the orange wheel and the cherry."

"Red."

"Red?"

"Red. The cherry tastes like red. That's odd."

Janeway sits very still, very very still. If she breathes, the spell must surely be   
broken, and she will be Alice, on the wrong side of the looking glass. Again.

"It's odd, because I always thought cherries would taste like... cherry."

"Yes?" It's not a question so much as it is a breath, a breath of hot air into   
Seven's hair.

"But they only taste like red. pling plong, red."

"Tell me more," she begs Seven in a whisper. Tell me more about the taste of   
red.

But Seven is asleep on her shoulder, and there is not a single pling to be heard.

Outside, the stars wink and blink and move in patterns mere humans cannot   
understand. 

The Vulcan bartender wipes away the last forgotten cherry from the counter, and   
they fade away, as the holodeck turns to black.

FINIS


End file.
